by Naima Simone
She stared up at him, her scrutiny roaming over his face, and for a long instant, settling on his mouth.
Her gaze jerked back to meet his. “No.”
With one lingering survey of him from his beard to his damn bare toes—a survey that smacked of arousal and regret—she pivoted and walked away.
He remained standing on the canvas, watching her disappear behind the white partition.
What the hell just happened?
Chapter Four
“So, I finish training for the day and get in my car. Just as I start it, I see this shadow in my backseat. Turns out, this chick bribed her way past security and onto the lot, and snuck into my car. Nearly scared the shit out of me.” Dominic Anderson shook his head, reaching for his beer on the low table he, Zeph, and their three friends surrounded at Doyle’s, a bar in Seattle’s Pioneer Square that they all often frequented.
“Not literally, I hope,” Zeph drawled, tipping his own beer for a long sip.
A middle finger was Dom’s only reply.
“You fucked her, didn’t you?” Ronin Palamo asked. The star wide receiver for the Warriors narrowed his gaze, propping his elbows on the arms of the chair he sat sprawled in.
“Of course not,” Dom objected, outrage darkening his expression.
Zeph damn near rolled his eyes. The only thing missing was a hand clutching proverbial pearls. Dom had recently wrapped up a commercial for a new sneaker line, but his acting skills were hardly good enough to pull off “righteously offended.” With that movie-star face, his money, and his career as the Warriors’ quarterback, he wasn’t a stranger to women throwing themselves at him. The man had to dodge pussy like he juke stepped defense on an all-out blitz.
“She blew him.” Tennyson Clark bit into her burger after delivering that bit of insight, an eyebrow raised high. Not only was she Dom’s personal assistant, but they had been best friends since they were kids, and when he’d been drafted out of Ohio State, she’d followed him to Seattle. She knew him better than anyone, and that included Zeph and Ronin, who’d played side by side with him these past six years.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Dom snapped at her.
“That’s what he said.” Renee Smith, a public relations consultant for the Warriors franchise as well as friend to them all, grinned, wriggling her dark eyebrows like some mustache-twirling, top-hat-wearing cartoon villain.
“I. Said. Nothing. Happened,” the quarterback ground out from between clenched teeth.
Ronin snickered. “She so blew him.”
“Yeah, she did,” Renee crowed at the same time.
“Give it up, bruh,” Zeph added with a shake of his head.
“Fuckers,” Dom growled, glaring at all of them before turning the full power of it on Tennyson, who simply shrugged in return, totally unrepentant. “And you. Snitches get stitches.”
“So aside from Dom getting his dick sucked by some random…again…what else is going on? I feel like I haven’t seen you guys in forever. Once the season starts, I know it’s only going to get worse,” Renee lamented, reaching for the other half of Tennyson’s burger but receiving a pop on the hand before she could touch it. “Ouch. Damn,” she grumbled. “Anyway, Zeph, wasn’t your photo shoot for Sports Unlimited today?”
“Yeah,” he said, leaving it at that.
“You might’ve said ‘yeah,’ but that tone was all Get Outta My Shit.” Ronin laughed, leaning forward and propping his elbows on his thighs. “I talked to Jason earlier, and that asshole didn’t mention anything. What happened?”
For a moment, a pall hung over their small area, the lively din of the pub fading a little under the weight of the silence. Ronin winced, while Tennyson ducked her head, and a tic set up along the line of Dom’s jaw.
Jason Wilder, the last member of their tight circle, and Renee and Ronin had all grown up together in the Seattle area. But after Jason and Renee hooked up months ago, the friendship had imploded right after the sex ended. Now all of them resembled a fractured family more than a close-knit group. Due to the bitterness between the two, all of them hadn’t been able to hang together in months; it was either Renee or Jason, but never the two together.
Shit, sometimes it seemed like they were caught in a custody battle.
“Because there was nothing to tell,” Zeph said into the tense, awkward quiet. “It’s not like it was the first time we worked together.” He narrowed his eyes on Ronin over the rim of his bottle. “I swear, bruh. You and gossip. Makes me want to check you for panties instead of shorts.”
Ronin took a deep gulp of his Guinness and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. And women still found him irresistible. Must be the lumberjack look with the long hair and full beard, ’cause it definitely couldn’t be the manners.
“Shows how much you know,” Ronin said, jabbing his mug in Zeph’s direction. “I’m straight free-balling it.”
“Oh eeew.” Renee wrapped both hands around her throat, gagging.
“Those aren’t the jeans you ‘borrowed’ and never gave back, are they?” Dom demanded, glaring at his friend.
“Quarterback, you wish you needed this much room,” Ronin drawled.
“While I’m choosing to overlook your sexist remark about gossip and women,” Tennyson interjected, her even tone like a cool, calm lake amidst the loud overlapping back and forth, “I would like to point out that the lady under discussion is over at the bar. Has been for the last hour.”
Zeph’s head jerked up, and, almost against his will, he searched the long length of the bar on the other side of the room. There. At the far end. That blue sky-tipped dark hair, coffee and cream skin, and vixen body were unmistakable. Giovanna Cruz.
The bite of her rejection still prickled under his skin like the stinger of a bee. Especially when he’d been so sure it’d been attraction he’d read in her eyes, in her body. No, he wasn’t the manwhore Ronin and Dom were, but in the ten years since he’d entered college, he’d had his fair share of women. He could easily decipher between pretending and real arousal. Even his ex Shalene, who’d been after the fame of being a WAG, had enjoyed the sex. Hell, in the sheets might’ve been the only place she hadn’t lied.
So yeah, Giovanna had wanted him. But she’d still turned him down and walked away without a backward glance, leaving him trying to talk down a raging hard-on in nylon pants.
A hard-on that had already risen to half-mast with just a brief sighting of her.
“Oh suuure,” Renee said from beside him. “I’m totally convinced nothing happened now.”
But he didn’t reply to her smart-ass comment. Didn’t even say bye to his friends. He was already on his feet, striding across the floor.
Lust swirled through his veins, thick and hot. A voice whispered he was making a huge fucking mistake. All of his focus should be centered on the upcoming season and winning. Not to mention he’d been in this place before. Different woman, different face, but same situation. And he’d paid the price. It’d made him wary of those who lived their lives in “the business.” From his experience, fame was a narcotic that could never satisfy some people.
So pursuing this…this thing with Giovanna the up-and-coming cover model could boomerang to bite him on the ass.
Yet, he still continued to wind his way around tables and people with unerring accuracy. He was a guided missile locked on his target, and nothing was getting in his way.
…
“Thanks.” Sophia smiled at the bartender as the woman set a napkin and another Lemondrop—her third—on the bar top in front of her.
“Umm, sweetie, you might want to slow down. Those things are delicious as hell, but they can sneak up on you. Last time I tangled with one, I ended up on the bathroom floor,” Delia, the hairstylist from the day’s shoot, warned.
“Oh pooh.” Mona, the makeup artist, flicked her fingers in the direction of the lemonade-flavored cocktail. Or as Sophia liked to call it, shiny-happy-feelings-in-a-glass. “Remember, the tattoo. Sh
e’s had man trouble. She deserves this. Drink up, honey.”
Instead of disabusing Mona of her assumption about Sophia’s reason for her ink, she took a long, deep sip of the alcohol. And hummed at the cold, lemony goodness as it slid down her throat. Damn, that was good.
When the two women had invited her out after the shoot, Sophia had almost turned them down. Pretending to be her model twin had been exhausting, and the reasonable part of her asserted that the longer she continued the charade, the bigger the chance of slipping and blowing her cover. But the side that quietly enjoyed the attention she’d received today—the side that she didn’t need a therapist to tell her was firmly rooted in that sixteen-year-old high-school girl—had jumped at the opportunity. For a night—a Thursday night, at that—she would hang with new friends, laugh, have fun. They’d already introduced her to Lemondrops. And if the women thought they were hanging with…not Sophia, well, she’d try and forget that for the next few hours.
“We should so find you a man. The best way to get over one is to get under another,” Delia said, running a fingertip around her sugar-rimmed glass. “This bar is a popular place. All the local celebrities come here. Including”—she gave a full-body shiver as she sucked her fingertip into her mouth—“football players.”
“Yeah.” Mona sighed. “Those huge bodies, tight abs, big ol’ thighs and…hands.” She snickered, then, without warning, she seized both Delia and Sophia by the wrists. “Oh shit, look who’s sitting over there by the back window.” When they went to turn on their barstools, her grip tightened. “Don’t be so obvious!” she hissed. “Nice ‘n’ slow. It’s Dominic Anderson and Ronin Palamo.” A wicked smile curved her purple-tinted lips. “And your guy, Zephirin Black.”
The light buzz from the cocktails she’d inhaled evaporated like fizz in a flat soda. A gale of roughly one-hundred miles per hour whipped and roared between her ears, her heart adding the bass of thunder.
Zephirin here. In the same bar. Feet away.
Oh shit.
Earlier, she’d refused his dinner invitation. But that had been a matter of self-preservation. During the photo shoot, the hot-sex-on-a-platter football player had shaken her. Rendered her damn near speechless and definitely thoughtless. And for someone who had a cover story to maintain, that blared danger… He blared danger. Big, neon red, don’t-fucking-try-it danger.
Delia and Mona were one thing, but holding her own alone with Zephirin, with those eagle eyes focused on her for several hours? Yeah, she didn’t trust herself. She’d been right to turn him down. To walk away. End it so she didn’t burrow deeper into a lie.
Now if only her nipples and va-jay-jay would just get the notice, she could return to her night of drinking. Any minute now…
“Holy shit. Zeph’s headed this way,” Delia squealed, twisting back around on her barstool, eyes wide. “Oh Jesus. I can get pregnant just from hearing that man talk.” Taking a huge gulp of her margarita, she fluttered a hand next to her face.
While the other two women pretended to not see the huge mountain of manflesh striding their way, Sophia couldn’t tear her gaze off of him. She couldn’t look away from the stare that seemed to pin her to the backless seat.
Zephirin Black. Even his name was sexy as hell.
Twenty-eight years old. Six feet, six inches, two hundred and eighty-three pounds. Hailed from New Orleans, Louisiana. Attended Louisiana State University where he’d been a star tight end for the Tigers all four years, and was key in leading them to two SEC championships. Graduated with a Bachelor’s in finance, and drafted to the Washington Warriors six years ago. All Pro every year, Offensive MVP once.
Wikipedia was a wonderful thing. But it hadn’t mentioned diddly about his thighs possessing the size and strength of tree trunks. Or that when he lifted a woman, his hands easily spanned her waist and made her feel like a Sherman tank could be headed straight for her and she’d still have no fear of being harmed. Or that under the hot gleam of lights, his skin resonated an intoxicating, sensual musk of sunshine and sex.
Nope. Epic fail, Wikipedia.
Maybe if her brain stopped insisting on replaying moments from the photo shoot, then she could do something other than gawk like a completely starstruck groupie. Like, if she could forget the greedy need that had ripped through her when she knelt at his feet, her mouth inches from the surely-those-are-socks-in-there bulge straining against the laces of his football pants. Or if she could somehow erase the slight but delicious sting of her scalp when he’d tugged on her hair…tilting her head back…as if positioning her for…
Christ. She picked up her glass and, following Delia’s lead, sipped long and deep. Liquid courage was a must.
Seconds slowed to the pace of years, but eventually he approached, stopping directly in front of her. His eyes appeared even more piercing under the dim bar lighting, the green almost eclipsed by the gold. Everything in her vibrated and hummed. The light purple tank top and flowing white skirt she’d worn had seemed adequate for a night out, but under his perusal, she felt stripped. Naked.
“Ladies,” Zephirin greeted all of them, even though he never removed his stare from her.
Mona and Delia’s voices tripped over one another as they replied, their giddiness and pleasure a palpable thing.
“Would you two mind if I spoke with Giovanna for a moment?” He dipped his chin in the direction from where he’d come. “I’ll switch places with you.”
She wouldn’t have been surprised if a cloud of exhaust had plumed behind her newfound friends as they abandoned her to zoom across the room and socialize with Zephirin’s circle. Son of a bitch. Hadn’t they ever heard of “bros before hoes?” Or however that would go with women. Chicks before dicks, that’s what it was.
“Giovanna.” The aforementioned pregnancy-inducing drawl caressed her name—or rather her twin’s name—as he lowered onto the nearest stool. “It’s nice seeing you again.”
“You, too,” she said, swigging down more of the cocktail.
“You okay?” he asked, leaning a bent elbow on the bar top. The move brought him a scant inch closer. Forcing her to imbibe even more.
“Sure. Why do you ask?”
A beat of silence. “Because you’re sucking down that drink like it’s about to run away screaming.”
The snicker escaped her before she could trap it, the crackling dry tone and joking unexpected. He’d done the same—caught her off guard—when he’d unexpectedly teased her during the shoot. Even now, he seemed so…intense. Stoic. And his demeanor had her caught between a nervous urge to babble and a need to… Hell, just a need.
“Here you go.” The bartender appeared, setting a tall glass down in front of Sophia even though she hadn’t ordered another. Oh well, hers was just about halfway gone, so yay, more alcohol. “How ’bout you, Mr. Black?” she fairly purred, crossing her arms on the bar, leaning over and placing her admittedly impressive cleavage on full display. “Can I get you something?”
“Something” not being anything on the menu. Unless they’d suddenly added pussy al dente on the entree list.
Wow. Sophia peered down into her glass. Alcohol must bring out her bitchy side.
But really, how could Sophia blame her? The man, with his stylish cap, black shirt that covered his shoulders and wide chest like a shameless hussy, and perfectly tailored gray pants, was gorgeous eye candy all by himself. With a face and body like that, millions of dollars and fame just seemed like overkill.
Zephirin placed his order for another beer then glanced at Sophia. “Giovanna? Would you like something else?” Her belly did that involuntary stop-drop-and-roll thing at the sound of his deep, honeyed accent. But underneath, an oily unease and…jealousy crawled. She hated that he called her by someone else’s name. No, not just someone’s. Her sister’s.
Inhaling, she deliberately squelched both the fire drill motions and the disquiet. “Yes, sure.” She grabbed one of the menus resting several inches in front of her. After a quick scan, she sa
id, “I’ll have the steak burger, medium rare and fully loaded, with a side of garlic truffle fries. Make it a large order,” she recited, already tasting the butter and salty goodness in her mouth. The alcohol should’ve filled her stomach, but she was suddenly hungry. Giving the behemoth of a man next to her side eye, she amended that hungry to ravenous.
Zephirin arched an eyebrow, and an anvil labeled “Oh shit!” plummeted out of the sky and slammed on top of her. A working model didn’t eat big-ass burgers piled with everything from lettuce to onion rings. One damn sure didn’t request a double order of fries.
“I’ll have the same.” He nodded to the bartender.
“Sounds great,” the other woman cooed. “Is there anything else you need? A refill of your water? Lemon and lime, right? Would you like bread while you wait for your entrée?”
Sophia barely contained a snort as he turned down the waitress’s offer of “whatever he wanted,” sending her away with a disappointed pout but an extra sway in her hips. Shaking her head, Sophia glanced at Zephirin, and the breath she’d just sucked in moments earlier evaporated like smoke in her lungs. Those eyes. She couldn’t get used to them—or their power to render her mute. And dumb. And horny.
Desperately, she scrambled for a safe topic. Nothing that had anything to do with today’s shoot, her mouth being anywhere near his cock, or her nipples currently trying to drill holes through her top. And definitely nothing about her identity.
“So, those are your friends, huh? I’m getting a real Breakfast Club vibe off of you… No, wait. Scratch that. St. Elmo’s Fire. Definitely St. Elmo’s Fire. The brunette is definitely giving me Jules. The killer stilettos scream party girl. And the lumberjack? Kirby sans long hair. Oh, and the one with the pretty curls? Wendy. Especially since she can’t keep her eyes off the Sam Heughan look-alike. So that would make him Billy since Wendy’s obviously in love with him. That leaves Kevin, Alec, and Leslie…” Her voice trailed off as the words she’d just rambled replayed through her head. Oh fuck. Somebody stop her mouth. Or better yet, hit her with an elephant tranquilizer and put her ass out. She cleared her throat. “I’m sor—”